Waterfront Woes
by Witchy Bee
Summary: The Gray Fox just made it look easy.
1. Chapter 1

_"I'm a thief. Now, don't get me wrong. I ain't saying this out of pride, but I ain't ashamed of my occupation neither. Thieves got a perfect right to exist in the Empire. People say we're dishonest. Of course, those people are usually either merchants or priests, which really slays me. Sort of the snake calling the worm legless."_

_- Confessions of a Thief_

)O(

"Some people say you're fuckin' Armand."

Redar glanced questioningly at Methredhel, with whom she shared a friendly rivalry, then turned her attention back to the pint in front of her. The thief's bold yet casual tone was almost enough to make her choke on her ale. Methredhel was subtly asking if what she had heard was true.

Well, not terribly subtle, apparently.

It wasn't difficult to imagine where one might get an idea like that; she'd won her place in the Guild by outplaying Methredhel at the thief's own game, and it didn't take her long to excel. For a while this caused a strain between them, but eventually Methredhel was also recruited and the two quickly put that unpleasantness behind them for the sake of mutual association, at least. Really, she had to admire the wood elf's determination. And Methredhel could recognize talent when she saw it, but it seemed that wasn't enough for some people.

Of course it was foolishness to be offended by idle gossip, yet Redar couldn't help the surge of anger that rose inside her at such an accusation. How dare they insinuate that she achieved her rank by any means other than honest hard work? Well, as honest as a thief could be.

Yes, even she had to admit Armand was rather attractive - redguards did tend to catch her eye more so than other races - but he struck her as more like an uncle than a romantic interest. Besides, she preferred to think she possessed a shred of self-respect even now. Honor among thieves, and so forth.

"Don't be ridiculous," she muttered. "Where did you hear an absurd thing like that anyway?"

"Just talk, that's all. You know how it is: rumors spread like the plague 'round here." The wood elf shrugged, flashing a sly grin. "I wouldn't think any less of you. We all have to get by somehow. Certain folks simply have a hard time comprehending how you manage to elude the guards so well."

"Practice," the thief answered. "Believe me: I've served my time before. I got good at what I do through skill and experience. Not by sucking the Gray Fox's cock, or anyone else's for that matter."

This sent Methredhel into a fit of loud, drunken laughter. Luckily, no one seemed too bothered. The Bloated Float was currently alive with the voices of several equally drunk peasants, slurring out off-key renditions of popular tavern songs. They often did so after a particularly grueling day working on the docks. As it happened, work for Redar and Methredhel had yet to begin, because work for them truly began when all the good citizens of the Imperial City locked their homes and businesses up tight and went to sleep.

The two women drained the rest of their drinks and left a few coins as payment. Then they slipped out of the inn unnoticed, disappearing into the night before going their separate ways to claim their fortunes.

Hey, it's not like they didn't work for it.


	2. Chapter 2

_"A thieves' guild is what they call a crime regulator. We protect each other and punish the clumsy and greedy. The kings depend on us to keep the amateurs out of business."_

_- Confessions of a Thief_

)O(

There was no middle class in Cyrodiil, and this was especially true in the Imperial City, where people flocked to make their dreams come true. Problem is, everyone did this, and reality rarely lived up to what they were hoping for. So, in the very simplest of economic terms, you had those who were wealthy and those who were not. If you're unfortunate enough to be part of the latter majority, all you could hope was that you weren't alone.

The Guild created an illusion of family. Of safety and security. Connections were invaluable, especially when they meant the difference between life and death, freedom and prison. It made some thieves too reckless, which would ultimately be their downfall. So it was important to emphasize that everyone continued to be out for themselves alone. Separate yet bonded in their struggle. Gold remained the great equalizer, and there never was enough of it here on the Waterfront.

Life was hard and most just barely survived day to day. The Guild looked after its own to a certain degree, and supposedly the Gray Fox protected beggars and peasants, although sometimes she wondered if he truly existed at all. Maybe he was more like a concept, a manifestation of generosity and kinship, a god for the poor. He inspired something much like faith within the hearts of many who had lost faith in the gods and empire sworn to protect them. At the same time, his name caused many to cling to their possessions just a little tighter, maybe even appreciate what they had.

"Good evenin' to ya, miss." Her eyes were drawn toward the ground where a figure sat slumped against a wall. He was an Imperial, like herself, who wore rags. His face was unshaven and his hair unwashed, yet he still gave her a wide smile that was missing a few teeth.

"Greetings, Ancus," Redar smiled back. "How have you been?"

He shrugged his bony shoulders. "Can't complain."

After a moment's pause, she reached into her purse and withdrew a handful of coins, which she then handed to the beggar. Ancus smiled even wider now, but there was puzzlement in his eyes.

"Is there somethin' you need to know 'bout, miss?" he inquired. "Per'aps the sleepin' habits of a certain guard captain? We beggars see everything, as you're well aware. It's a benefit of havin' nowhere to go."

"Thank you, but not tonight," she replied. "I just wanted to make sure you got some food in your belly."

"Then _I_ should be the one to thank _you_, miss."

"Take care of yourself, all right?"

"Aye, and you, miss." Ancus winked at her. "Blessings of the Shadow upon ye."

Redar knew - and suspected he did as well - how unlikely it was at this point that the beggar would change his lot in life. He was too old for manual labor, too weak from malnourishment and illness. Of course it was unfair; that went without saying. However, all they could do now was simply keep living, and remember those who couldn't anymore. Whether their souls resided with the Nine or the Gray Fox now, she didn't know.


	3. Chapter 3

_"I remember what the guy looked like, but not exactly what he said. Something like, 'Hey, kid, if you want to steal in these parts, you're going to have to join the Guild. Otherwise, I or someone like me is going to break your skinny arms so you can't steal.' But having two working arms is only part of the benefit. They trained me, taught me, and kept me out of prison. How many other guilds can boast a forgery expert on the premises?'"_

- Confessions of a Thief

)O(

"What in Oblivion's name are ya doin'?"

The girl - well, not really a girl anymore, was she? - looked up from the book, startled by her mentor's almost accusatory tone. "Reading," she said slowly.

The nord's thick brows furrowed in suspicion. "'bout what?" he asked after a moment.

"Picking locks, actually."

"Ah. Very good," She watched as a smile spread across his face, reaching his eyes. "But ya don't need no book ta learn 'bout pickin' locks. Practice makes perfect, yeh? Ya think I learned what I know from some book?"

She shook her head, and he beckoned her to him. They sat across from each other around a slightly wobbly table he'd built himself.

"Pickin' a lock is like fuckin' a woman," Gudlin explained sagely. Young Redar wondered, not for the first time, exactly how drunk he was right now. Despite his unorthodox methods and less than parental approach to instructing her in the ways of thievery, Gudlin had always been kind to her. Never had he hesitated to provide shelter from the cold, food from his table, even though she wasn't family and was a member of the race that sought to convert every nord in Cyrodiil worshiping the Nine Divines.

He didn't have to pass on his knowledge, yet he did so. It occurred to her much later that he was in fact self-taught. Perhaps he gave books too little credit, but at this time Redar wasn't about to question it. She was fortunate to have a mentor at all. Like many who found themselves alone and penniless in the world, she was driven to stealing by desperation. But at least now she didn't have to be completely alone. However, it seemed literacy gave her an advantage over her fellow thieves, even though she would likely join a Guild and become one of them someday, a Child of the Shadows, a Finger of the Fox...

Gudlin went on. "Ya jus' gotta wiggle the lockpick 'round 'til somethin' clicks. Now, sometimes yer lockpicks are gonna break, and some lockpicks are weaker than others dependin' on the metal used to make 'em."

"Like copper?" she blurted out, earning an odd look from the nord.

"...Right. Exactly. Some locks are tricky, too, usually the ones worth pickin'."

"Like angled locks? Is it true that if you bend a copper lockpick, you can fit it into abnormally shaped keyholes easier, assuming the copper doesn't break first?"

Gudlin just stared at her, dumbstruck. He'd never heard of such a thing. "Well...uhh...where did ya hear that?"

"I didn't hear it," Redar replied in a small voice, blushing. "I read it."

"Oh, huh. Maybe there is somethin' to that book o' yers..." Now it was his turn to blush. He asked sheepishly: "Say, ya think ya could...ya know...read it to me?"

As it happened, picking a lock was quite similar to sex in the sense that it had the potential to be rather pleasurable, and there existed a constant risk of being caught. Gudlin would one day demonstrate the full truth of his metaphor in a back alley behind the Market Distract, and again a few times after that in various locations. She would bleed once, then it just felt ordinary. Redar was of age and not unwilling. Besides, better it be someone she trusted, rather than a guard looking for a defenseless woman to take advantage of. One less thing to lose, that way.

Redar grabbed the thin book, opened it, and read aloud. "'I am not a writer. I am a thief. I am a good thief. I am not such a good writer. Anyway, I want to write about picking locks. . .'"

Gudlin always said that 'a strong tower repels warriors, but attracts thieves.' Apparently it was an old nordic proverb. However, it seemed to speak more to the bravery and perhaps foolishness of the thief than the strength of the tower.


	4. Chapter 4

_"So the next time you're calling some swindling merchant or usurious priest a thief, think about it. There is honor among thieves - I should know."_

_- Confessions of a Thief_

)O(

She wasn't defenseless anymore.

Redar had friends in places now, a makeshift family, yet she did not expect anyone to bail her out of prison for petty theft. Just like she hadn't expected the emperor of Cyrodiil to enter her cell a lifetime ago, ramble quite cryptically and poetically of things to come, then die.

She didn't really believe in fate anyway, but now Redar knew there was a dangerous, beautiful and brutally unfair world beyond the Waterfront. A world filled with Aedra and Daedra forever feuding over what one might compare to property rights. Not that any such things mattered to an insignificant mortal like herself.

Yes, she had been careless this time. It happened to the best of us and Gudlin, if he were still here today, would be furious to hear of it. Armand bailed her out. Part of her was indeed angry because it really didn't help to squash that rumor...

Why was he helping her? As a rule, thieves were on their own in this world, and for good reason. Not to say they never aided one another, but there was always an ulterior motive.

"I guess I owe you some gold." Redar said, partly to test the waters of this seemingly selfless gesture. Doyens were the most well connected individuals in the Guild, and they could easily make all her fines disappear for half of what the guards demanded and with the added bonus of not having to lose any stolen goods, because how else was she supposed to earn enough gold to begin with?

But Redar knew better than to assume Armand would do it for free.

"Don't worry about it," the redguard replied somewhat distantly, as if his mind was burdened with urgent concerns of his own, and it probably was.

She followed him to the abandoned house on the waterfront where, surprisingly, all Guild members currently residing within the Imperial City were gathered. Well, all except one.

They looked about as confused as Redar felt. In the end, she took a seat beside Methredhel and waited for Armand to begin.

"It's Hillod," he said gravely. "They caught him. He's scheduled to be hanged at noon tomorrow."

Several shocked gasps escaped the lips of those present, while others, like herself, could only stare. It wasn't shocking, truth be told; Hillod had been an outlaw even before joining the Guild. He never would make it the Imperial Reserve now...

Death was a constant element of life on the Waterfront, as well as anywhere else, since death proved constant in all matters of life. Still, the manner in which one died was important. Death could be viewed as a mercy, but among the poor it seemed to come upon them so early in life. They didn't even get a chance to die for their empire in some glorious battle, and be hailed heroes.

There was no glory in being strung up before a crowd of bloodthirsty onlookers who somehow believed that your crimes justified murder. At least the Thieves' Guild didn't kill people. There was no glory in poverty, or burying a friend. There was no glory in being a thief.

Well, unless you reveled in the thrill of danger or took amusement from the scornful looks passersby gave you right before you picked their pockets or entered a house that was far too nice to belong to the likes of you. Even that, however, was not glory. It was simply a matter of becoming accustomed to the stench of desperation, which was everywhere on the Waterfront.

Sometimes one had to boil down life to sharp-edged truths in order to dull the guilt. The fact was that they wouldn't starve, but _you_ would. A few septims won't be missed by them, but to you those precious coins gleam in the late afternoon light like nothing else, decedent gold, endless possibility. Those few coins are _everything_ to someone with almost nothing, someone like Redar.

Honor among thieves, she reminded herself, realizing it's the only thing she truly had faith in anymore. She would find out soon enough that the Gray Fox was but a mortal man, not some god who protected them all. And the Shadow was so easily bested by a handful of shiny coins, so what good did it do her?

What good did it do Hillod?

But there was honor here, rationed out perfectly in small moments. It was in the way she still shared her coins with beggars, lending a helping hand to someone with even less than she had. It was in the way they all gathered together outside the prison district at midday, where a crowd of eager "good" citizens were also waiting to witness a man die. Redar glared at them; hadn't they gotten their fill of blood from the Arena?

Almost the entire Waterfront was present that day, standing solemnly, some heads bowed and others looking skyward, toward the gallows. They looked shabby compared to everyone else, but that hardly mattered, as no one bothered to acknowledge their existence anyway.

It was only fair that Hillod go out with at least one friendly pair of eyes there to remember, and after this, it was decided without a word that they would walk silently home and gather at the Bloated Float.

Then the silence would end. They would drink, they would laugh and cry and tell stories. As always, they would _sing_. A celebration of life. Mostly of Hillod's life, cut too short, but also of their own.

It was the least they could do, and to them it was indeed everything.


End file.
